Fuck Cancer or Why Death is Stupid

PLEASE NOTE....THIS BLOG IS A PURE VENT/RANT. Proceed at your own risk.

Let's do a quick recap.

My cousin Jim died from leukemia in September 2008
My friend/mother of choice Mrs. Mona Harris died of colon cancer in 2009
My best friend Chris killed himself last summer
My beloved friend Tiffany died from a sudden heart attack at the ripe old age of maybe 43 last fall.
My Honey Bun (Aunt Sis) is dying from bone cancer and has been in and out of intensive care for the last month.

I am so fucking sick and tired of death and I have a special hatred of cancer. I get that death is a part of life. I understand and believe that this life is only part of our spiritual journey. I understand that everything, including myself, will die one day.

Fuck philosophy and all that esoteric go into the light bullshit. I want my friends and family in THIS life. Thank you very much. God has enough folks to entertain him and can hold off on collecting any more folks that I love for the next 50 years or so. Is that selfish? HELL YES!

I mean come on. Really come on. My Honey Bun has lived a full and beautiful life. That woman survived the segregated South and raised three beautiful children AND, when my Dad's Mama died at the age of 31 from leukemia, she and my great-granny raised my Dad. Until this bone cancer really started to affect her, Honey Bun was still cleaning houses to pay her bills. That woman has earned an easy retirement full of joy and the love of her grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and her great-nieces and nephews. She should be sitting on her front porch in Ronceverte, WV drinking little glasses of wine or mason jars of blackberry brandy and telling us all stories about her life, embarrassing stories about our parents, and reminding us of how much beauty there is in our history despite the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.

That woman should get to die peacefully without pain at around the age of 115...and until then she should be physically fit and living her life on her own terms just the way she always has. Let her drop dead because her heart is so full of joy it can't handle it anymore and stops beating.

The same goes for Mrs. Harris, Chris, Tiffany, and Jim. Bring them back and let them have the love and joy that they deserved! BRING THEM BACK RIGHT NOW (but not as zombies...that wouldn't be right). Stupid fucking Lazarus got to come back to life, and he didn't do shit to earn that.

I am just tired of death and pissed off by it. None of these people have left this life or are leaving this life because it was their time. They are leaving it because some asshole corporation spent years dumping toxins into the atmosphere and water and their bodies couldn't resist it. Chris is the exception, but don't get me started on the stigma of mental health, HIV and addiction, his death was just as unnatural as all the others. And Tiffany was a black woman in America...enough said.

I am tired of folks sending me pat sayings and religious bullshit about folks having moved on to glory. Yes. I understand that. I know that they are all happy, and I know my Honey Bun is going to have the biggest damn mansion of all when she gets to Heaven, her traveling shoes are going to be Manolo Blahnik's and her robe is going to be made by Elie Tahari. Great. Lovely. She's earned it. But that doesn't do a damn thing for those of us left behind.

And, newsflash, DEATH IS PERSONAL!

ALL DEATH IS ABOUT EVERY PERSON WHOSE LIFE HAS BEEN TOUCHED BY THE ONE THAT HAS PASSED ON! EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO THEIR PAIN AND GRIEF! NO ONE OWNS THE DEATH OF A LOVED ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE!

No one gets to negate my pain or sadness because his or her pain or sadness is greater. My mourning does not take away from, detract from, or lessen anyone else's.

I blame Nurse Jackie for this blog. That damn show is amazing, and the actors should all win Emmy's...and then they should hand them to me, so I can beat them all to death for making me cry. Those deaths would be justified. Just saying.

Anyway...there was no point to this blog entry besides venting some shit out. I feel much better now. Thank you.

Risk and Death

One year ago today, I lost my cousin to leukemia. In less than three months, my little sister will be shipped back to Iraq for her fourth tour of duty. Last spring, I lost a friend and mentor, Mona Harris, to cancer. My little brother recently returned from Afghanistan, and with that war showing no signs of ending, it is almost a surety that he will also be sent back into harms way.

I am sick and tired of death and the risk of death.

At the age of 32, I should rarely have to think of death. If I do, it should come in the form of elders that have lived long and fulfilled lives, individuals that die surrounded by the people that love them knowing that they are loved.

How fucking naive is that statement.

Unfortunately, I know that because I am not white and most of the people around me are not white, they will die younger than they should. I know because I have had one family member die from cancer that now it is more likely that others will also pass along.

And then there is war.

When a country enters into a war it enters into a compact with death. It promises to the Reaper the certainty of soul collection in order to achieve some goal. Some wars are fought because they must be fought. Though the impetus for the United States to enter the Second World War had little to do with justice and everything to do with empire, entering World War II was just. Hitler was an evil man with evil ambitions that caused great and destructive harm.

No war since then that has been fought by the United States has been right or just, they have simply been the United States trying to protect or enforce a particular corporatized political ideology or protect our own selfish and self-destructive political and economic interests.

The rest of the world and the families that sacrifice their children on the altar of false patriotism be damned.

The death of my cousin and Mrs. Harris and the risk of death of my little brother and sister are connected.

We spend BILLIONS of dollars each month on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Forget Korea, forget Vietnam, forget the silent invasions of Grenada, Panama, Somalia and the first Gulf War. Just calculate the amount of money that we have spent in the last six years in Afghanistan and Iraq. Now imagine if even ten percent of that money had been spent on cancer research and treatment.

My cousin almost survived leukemia.

He had an experimental bone marrow transplant, and for months the doctors at the University of Illinois-Chicago were calling him the miracle guy. Except the cancer came back and took him down quickly.

Afterwards they examined the data and thought perhaps they had done the transplant to soon, too quickly, they hadn't given his own immune system enough time to resist the cancerous blood cells. What if they had been granted a billion dollars to do their research? One billion dollars is LESS than we spend on war in one month. YET imagine what it would mean to research labs across the country. A year ago, perhaps the researchers would have known what they WILL know five years from now. If only they had the staff, equipment, lab space, and materials to move forward. If ONLY Bush hadn't restricted stem cell research during his eight years in office. If only we cared more about preserving life than we did about preserving the bottom line of corporations and shareholder profits.

If only.

But we don't. Instead, I am sitting here nearly a year after my cousin's death. I am remembering that I couldn't afford to fly from California to Minnesota to be with my family. To this day the guilt of that sits in my stomach. I saw my Aunt in June for the first time since my cousins death. All I could think of was that I was my cousin's closest family member outside of his Mom, Dad, and two brothers. I WAS the cousin that made sure to see him when he was in the hospital. I was the cousin that his wife loved. I was the cousin that went to see him when he got back from Korea. I was his friend.

And there is a good chance that if we spent more on life than on death that he would still be alive today, and I would still get to see him at family reunions and on holidays. I would have gotten to be at his wedding, and I would, perhaps, be with him right now.

Instead I am wondering how his nephew, the son of his twin brother, will ever know how amazing his uncle was. Instead, I wonder if my Aunty Susie, a woman that treated me like one of her own children, a woman that I love and look up to, a woman that understood me when I didn't really understand myself...I wonder if she will ever be the same aunty that I have known and loved my entire life.

And all because of a stupid disease that we could cure, except that we are too busy spending our money on war. And I am too busy worrying if I am going to lose my brother and sister too soon as well.

A Letter to the Harris Family and "Mona"

The world lost an amazing woman this week. She changed my life. Here is a link to Mrs. Harris' obituary. After the letter is a poem I wrote to remember Mrs. Harris.


Dear Harris Family:

For 17 years, you have welcomed me into your lives, and into your home. I have spent Thanksgivings, Christmases, and Easters with you. I have met Grandmas and Aunties, cousins and siblings. I can remember Marcus before Shelley, Shane before potty training, and Nicole when she started dating Erik....the first time.

I remember the first time I met Mrs. Harris. It was after the regional speech tournament. I had just won a medal for storytelling and Mrs. Harris gave me a ride home from South High School. I think I talked non-stop through the entire ride from S. Minneapolis to Camden. That poor woman.

Over the last almost 20 years, your family has become my family. If I didn’t show up for a holiday, I heard about it the next holiday...from the entire family (including new relatives that I hadn’t even met yet).

When I heard Mrs. Harris was sick, I wasn’t worried even a little bit. I had just lost my cousin to cancer. So I refused to believe that God would take away two people that I loved from the same disease. Plus, I thoroughly believed that nothing short of the second coming would move Mrs. Harris from here to Heaven. That woman was a force of nature. But, God had other plans for Mrs. Harris, and, as happens more often than I like, his plans and my plans weren’t the same. Good thing He is running things and not me. When I got the call from Noodle last weekend that Mrs. Harris was in hospice, I quite seriously was unbelieving and stunned. I had just spoken to her not too long previous to that. I had just spoken with Mr. Harris more recent than that. When Noodle called to tell me that Mrs. Harris had gone home to her King, I was walking down the street. And I felt like the world had gotten colder and darker. A great light was taken away from all of us on Monday.

I believe in God. I believe in his mercy, his love, and his justice. I don’t understand Him sometimes. And I don’t undestand this. Perhaps I am selfish. But I want to hear Mrs. Harris’s laugh again. I want to see her smile. I want her to hug me. She once came to visit me in the hospital. I had been with friends all evening, and I had not cried. But when the nurse said that she was there. When I saw her. When that beautiful spirit walked into my darkness, the glory of God was made manifest and for a moment, I had hope and the darkness was blasted away by the power of her spirit. She held me as I cried. She made me believe that I would be ok. Mrs. Harris knew all my secrets and she still loved me. She taught me that I didn’t have to hide anymore. That I was worthy of being loved. I never really got to tell her what that meant to me. She was the angel God sent to me that day. She never treated me any differently. Her heart and her home opened wider to me. And I thank God that Mrs. Harris allowed me to be a part of her life.

I wish I could be there with you all today. I wish I could hug Mr. Harris and thank him for 17 years of laughter. I wish I could hug Marcus and tell him thank you for the years of joking and welcome. I wish I could hug Shane and thank him for being a part of my family. Most of all I wish I could hug Noodle, my big sister, my friend, and give back some of the love and warmth that she has given to me since I was 14 years old.

I never once called Mrs. Harris by her first name. I was raised old school by my Mom. And the parents of friends are Mr. and Mrs. Period. But, I thought, this one time, Mrs. Harris wouldn’t mind.

Love,
Brandon


Mona

I remember her smile, can call it to memory
like her laughter
like her phone number
the only one
besides my lover’s
that I have memorized


I remember the angel
that walked in a mother’s clothing
in a minister’s robe
in a sister’s body
in a wife’s spirit
in a friend’s embrace
who cooked banquets
fed spirits
til they swelled
with blessings
til they filled
with hope

I remember the woman
who loved me
when I was too lost
too alone
too scared
too broken
too heart worn
too burdened
too wounded
to love myself

I remember the gift
that opened her home
and her heart
her family
and her life
to an awkward boy
who loved her daughter
who laughed too loudly
who stayed away too long
who left a voicemail
to say goodbye

I remember the teacher
who dedicated her life
and her body
her wisdom
and her strength
to tear down obstacles
to clear paths
to build roads and bridges
into brighter futures
for Northside children
that the world
tried to ignore
or throw away

I remember Mrs. Harris
the woman
the gift
the teacher
the bridge builder
the wife
the Grandma
the Sister
the Mother
the friend
the angel
that God called home too soon

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Oakland, CA
-12 February 2009